


Every You, Every Me

by mawr_blaidd_drwg



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-31 20:42:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mawr_blaidd_drwg/pseuds/mawr_blaidd_drwg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You and I both know that you can do far better than me, Isabelle.” Hearing her name slide through his lips in that lilting accent of his pleased her far more than she could have imagined. The man so taken with addressing everyone with prefixes and surnames all but growling her first name against her ear as his body hovered over hers and his hand grasped her cheek.</p>
<p>She steeled against his intense gaze, not breaking eye contact as she unconsciously licked at her kiss swollen mouth. His eyes followed the path of her tongue fervently.</p>
<p>“No one decides that but me,” Isabelle replied with confidence she wasn't aware that she possessed until now.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>After Emma Swan arrives in town Rumplestiltskin remembers everything, especially his true love who has been alive and right in front of him for twenty eight years. Storybrooke's resident librarian Isabelle French has no idea why Mr. Gold has showed up at her door with the strangest look on his face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tonight

 

It started off as an accident. Or at least he liked to pretend it was an accident.

The Dark Castle had grown quiet, far too quiet now that Rumplestiltskin had the impossibly bright eyed beauty that often skipped the halls talking to herself or humming, or worse, trying to strike up _conversation_ with him. But now as silence braced the halls, it became even more unsettling than noise. He wasn't sure why it unsettled him, perhaps he had grown accustomed to her friendly and obliging behavior.

He actually became uneasy as he passed the kitchen first, followed by the great room, and then even paused at the door to her room, and still no sight of those chestnut curls. His heart thudded in his chest as he really began to worry. What if she attempted to clean in his work room–like he had told her not to–and turned herself into a toad, or injured herself somehow. He checked there, but all was how he had left it; no new toads hopping around. He climbed the stairs to her library, nearly kicking himself for referring to it as ' _her_ ' library even though, it was in fact for her, and he had in fact _given_ it to her. She usually only retired there in the evening after she had finished all of her cleaning and cooking and her favorite new hobby: pestering The Dark One. But as he hovered at the final step of the winding staircase, he caught a glimpse of Belle curled up on the chaise lounge sleeping soundly.

He had never seen her sleep before. Not that he was in the business of watching anyone sleep really, he imagined that would be pretty creepy even for _him_. But as he stood there he found he literally could not tear his eyes from her. He was so used to seeing her very animated all of the time. Gesturing everywhere, beaming at him, giggling, or rolling her eyes. It was unsettling at first to see her so still, but then as he watched the rise and fall of her chest and the peaceful half smile of her face he realized and almost accepted that this new maid of his was actually going to become quite a serious problem. His subconscious scoffed at him; _as if she wasn't already a serious problem._

The darkness within Rumplestiltskin recoiled at the light that seemed to persistently ricochet off of her and sink deep into his pores nestling there like a slow suffocation.

Before he could even question himself or let a fleeting thought pass through his brain he was crossing the length of the library and lifting her unconscious form. One arm cradled underneath of her head, and the other hooked behind her knees. 

She must be ill, this wasn't like her to just nod off in the middle of the day. She was sound asleep, he convinced himself. She would never know that he was doing this and besides, it was chilly up in the library. She might catch a cold and then she wouldn't be able to clean or make his tea, she would probably complain and then he would never get any work done. His argument with himself was weak at best. His counter argument could be to perhaps create a warm fire with the flick of his wrist. Or to just transport her in the blink of an eye to her room. After all, he was the most powerful, magical wielding creature in the realms. 

But those thoughts didn't even occur to him as he quietly and gracefully left the library and descended down the stairs towards her bedroom. In her sleep Belle seemed to nuzzle against him and wrap her arms around his neck. He froze mid step, staring down at her in shock as if she had lit him on fire. Perhaps she had. He waited for her eyes to flutter open and to reveal the blue that terrified and awed him. But she continued to sleep soundly, if possible even more peacefully than before.

Yes, his little maid was most definitely quite a serious problem.

 

__--_-_--__

 

“Swan. Emma Swan.”

He was flying, free falling from the top of the highest building, grasping for ground. Trying to find his breath through the wind tunnel of air shoving him in several directions at once. And then he was slamming into ground, rough and tangled and harsh but also there was clarity. Clarity for the first time in twenty eight years. There was also that devastating pain in his leg again.

He blinked, and he was Mr. Gold no longer. 

The Savior was here, which meant the curse would be broken soon that's all he was certain for in this second. Keep it together. He had to keep it together. No one knew their true identity except for Regina and now himself, his inner monologue practically shouted at him. His thoughts were muddled, still trying to sort out memories of two separate lives. But one simple name had brought it all tumbling together in a manageable stack of cohesive thoughts and moments.

_"Emma. What a lovely name."_

And it was certainly her. Although she was a bit more rough around the edges than her parents ever could be and a part of him already respected her all the more because of it.

“Thanks,” the blonde responded slightly weary, her eyes revealing a very much 'don't fuck with me' sort of spirit but altogether framed with the same kindly face as her mother. 

As he collected the rent and his thoughts he started to hobble out of Granny's Bed and Breakfast before pause. 

“You enjoy your stay... _Emma_.”

He wanted to say the name as much as he could sanely get away with. As if confirming all of this was actually very real. Emma. The name that caused him to remember all that had been lost. The name he had written more times than he could ever count in his cell. The letters of her name had started to bleed together as if they almost had no more meaning, but _oh did they ever_. Had to remember, couldn't forget.

Couldn't forget, could never forget.

Something gnawed at him, clawed deep within his gut that he tried to recognize but couldn't quite put his finger on. He crossed the street, slower than he was used to now with the cane in hand, instead of strutting quickly around his castle. Something stopped him, that nagging feeling as he stared off at the Storybrooke Library. And for the second time within minutes clarity crippled him, quite literally once again. Breath escaped him and he nearly hit the pavement with realization as memories of the resident librarian flooded his vision.

Regina had _lied_. He was drowning in bright blue eyes and soft brown curls that had been right in front of his face for twenty eight cursed years. His True Love was very much alive.

_**Belle.**_

 

__--_-_--__

  

Isabelle French made the short journey from the closed library doors up the stairs to her apartment above. She had stayed later than usual gawking over the latest box of fiction that had just arrived and tried to decide which one to start reading. She ended up starting to read about five of them at once, unable to pick just one and therefore pulling all of them in her arms like precious cargo and locking up the library. As she reached the last step with a huff, blowing a rogue lock of auburn hair out of her face, the sound of a loud click falling into place had her jumping out of her skin and dropping all of the books. It almost sounded as though the clock above the library had started to become functional. But that couldn't be. It had never worked since well... she couldn't remember when it ever worked. 

She picked up her books almost laughing out loud feeling silly for being so jumpy, before she fished for her key in the pocket of her skirt. She balanced the books expertly while unlocking her apartment door, because this was certainly not the first time she brought a stack of books up to her apartment. She kicked the door shut behind her, placing the books in a neat stack on her kitchen table before turning around and hinging the lock on the door.

Isabelle straightened out her knee length plaid skirt and gold colored sweater before letting her chignon free, thick auburn locks crescendoing down her back. She nibbled on her bottom lip as she weighed her options of having either freezer burned chocolate fudge ice cream or wine for dinner. Both she decided at once. Definitely both. 

Following the newfound noise of the clock ticking above the building, there was a banging at her door. Startled for the second time within less than a minute, Isabelle whirled around and stared at her apartment door wondering if she imagined the noise before it repeated.

Cautiously, she walked towards the door her heels clicking against the creaky old wood floors, one foot in front of the other. No one ever visited the library past 8:00. If she was being honest with herself nobody really visited the library in general, and nobody _ever_ visited her apartment. Her heart beat thudded in time with the sound of her heels as she approached the door. Finally a shaking hand unlatched the lock on the door and turned the cool metal knob. With a harder pull the door creaked open.

Standing there with a bewildered almost feverish look on his face stood the well tailored Mr. Gold. His black eyes widened further and his lip actually trembled as he gasped. He looked as though he were possessed or possibly drunk, she couldn't decide.

“Uh, can I help you Mr. Gold?” she finally asked as he stood there gaping at her.

He cleared his throat, shaking his head trying the clear the deranged look off of his face, and not succeeding very well. She noticed that his knuckles had turned white and almost misshapen, gripping his cane painfully tight; his tie which was always perfectly ironed and tucked in place looked as though he had pulled it loose to breathe. His soft wave of brown and silver hair looked like he had been running his hands incessantly through it.

He tried try to speak but nothing came out of his mouth. In all the years that Isabelle had known Mr. Gold, he was never, _ever_ lost for words. Especially when she helped him with inventory at his pawn shop twice a month. She constantly endured his snarky remarks, although she was probably the only person in Storybrooke that didn't take his comments to heart. She would just roll her eyes at him and say something witty and sharp right back eliciting a raised eyebrow or a dark scoff from him.

“Would you like to come in?” Isabelle asked finally, getting a little nervous with Mr. Gold's sudden strange behavior. Most people would have run for their lives instead of letting the town pariah into their home, unless it was to collect money. Especially when this man happened to be ' _the devil in black_ ' as old Mrs. Lucas would mutter under her breath after he retreated with the rent. But Isabelle French was certainly not like most people, and in this current state Mr. Gold didn't seem all that threatening.

He nodded as she pulled the door further open and stepped aside for him to gracefully walk in. _Graceful_? Since when did she consider Mr. Gold graceful? That was very strange. Well considering he had a cane and a limp he was indeed graceful and quick in his movements. She shook her head of the thoughts.

They stood awkwardly at the entrance of her apartment. Him still giving her that unsettling sort of stare and her worrying her lip between her teeth and wondering how rude it would be to kick off her black stilettos since her feet were aching. He still remained silent and so Isabelle began to babble nervously.

“I paid the rent in full earlier this evening when you stopped by the library?” She wasn't sure if her words were intended to be a question or statement.

For a second he stared at her as though she were the insane one not he, the bewildered and altogether frightening man. And yet somehow, she was never frightened of him. He shook his head.

“Yes of course... _Miss French,_ your rent was paid in full as per usual.” His voice was edgier than usual, almost tight and ragged as he spoke. He seemed to struggle to say her name. Never Isabelle, always Miss French. 

The cold and serious Mr. Gold always so predictable and proper, standing in her apartment with sharp, quick breathing and fierce eyes.

“Inventory isn't until next week, right?” She tilted her head at him as they stood across from one another, she practically leaning against her kitchen table, him still clutching the golden handle of his cane as if he was trying to choke it to death.

Again he gave her that look, as though she were speaking Spanish instead of asking a reasonable question, before blinking. “Yes, Tuesday at 8:30 like usual. I didn't come here to inquire about the rent, or inventory, _dearie_.” 

Something about the way he rolled the word dearie off of his tongue hit Isabelle hard in the gut as if she had just had a shot of whiskey, the feeling warming her entire body and curling her toes. She swallowed roughly trying to push the feeling away. She was _really_ losing it tonight.

Why was he here then? Was he trying to make conversation with her? Sure they were civil to one another, although Isabelle couldn't picture herself being rude to anyone, even if it was warranted. It's not as though she and Mr. Gold were even friends. She couldn't imagine him having any friends really. For some reason that thought made her feel incredibly sad, though she shouldn't be surprised. He was after all notoriously awful to everyone he met. But no one deserved to be friendless, not even Mr. Gold.

She supposed that she got the least bit of cruelty from him. His unkindness had never really been directly targeted at her. She pushed his buttons in a way that had them debating with one another instead of him blackmailing her. Perhaps that's why he had showed up here–to talk?

“If you don't mind me asking Mr. Gold, why are you here then?” she asked and she honestly didn't mean for it to sound half as rude as it actually did. She almost covered her mouth with her hands, trying to reel the words back in.

His eyes which had seemed to be an endless black since arriving here, picked up a little bit of light at her words. It was as if she had finally said what he wanted to hear and wait–was that an actual smile on his face? It was like seeing a garden blooming in a snow storm.

“I wanted to... inquire about some of the new books you received today. As well as some first editions, that is if you don't mind.”

She frowned at this. If he had wanted to talk books with her, why didn't he do so when he collected the rent while she was still at the library several hours ago? She didn't say this out loud though, her curiosity pushed aside at the mere thought that Mr. Gold might possibly just want to spend time with her. But this was just _odd_. Barely even friends, standing across from one another in strained conversation, if that's what you could even call it.

Maybe he was lonely.

“Sure, I'll see what I can answer for you from memory since we aren't in the library. Would you like some tea?”

There was that soft almost smile again, his eyes warming. “Yes, thank you... Miss French.”

She wasn't sure why but her name sounded so wrong as it left his mouth. She almost corrected him; as if it was incorrect in some way, which it wasn't of course.

“Have a seat, I'll go make some,” she said gesturing towards her living room setting. She almost blushed when she thought about how nice all of the things that Mr. Gold owned probably were. In comparison her apartment seemed like a hole in a wall, although decorated to fit the rustic, thrift shop kind of vibe with pops of blues and yellows to brighten it up. It was normally a nice cozy little spot, but seeing as Mr. Gold just stopped by unannounced, she hadn't the time to straighten up. He didn't seem to care much about her apartment or anything in it other than her, as he continued to openly stare at her.

Isabelle turned on the kettle and approached her wooden cupboards that held her mugs and cups. As she opened the cupboard door she became painfully aware that she forgot to run the dishwasher. **Crap**. The only cup in the cupboard was a white mug that she had dropped however long ago, a small chip in the rim. **Double Crap**. With a vague wave of nausea mixed with complete amusement she realized the mug also had a large black mustache on it, underneath in sans serif it read “I mustache you a question.” **Triple Crap**.

One thing was for certain, she was **not** going to do dishes in front of Mr. Gold. She decided the lesser of two evils was handing him tea in a chipped mustache mug. Fear that his bout of strange, almost obliging behavior would ware off and he would make fun of her for all of eternity didn't overwhelm her nearly as much as it should have. Instead she almost burst out laughing at the thought of the all too serious Mr. Gold drinking out of said chipped mug; making it appear as though he had a large thick black mustache. She grabbed the cup placing it down on the counter doing her best to suppress a giggle.

When Isabelle whirled back around she realized that he had not moved to sit and instead still stood there staring at her as though he was afraid she would vanish before his eyes. She managed an awkward smile at him before reaching in another cupboard for sugar cubes, and the golden honey bear.

Eventually Mr. Gold sat down on her worn in not-quite-blue-anymore couch and waited, still watching her intently as if her making tea was the most significant event of his life. When the kettle whistled she poured his tea and added two sugar cubes as well as a spoonful of honey and made her way to the couch, a blush starting to crawl up on her face.

“Sorry this is the only cup I have. I was about to run the dishwasher before you stopped by. It's uh–a little chipped...”

She handed him his cup of tea sheepishly, feeling rather stupid and beginning to seriously regret just not washing a normal mug for him. He made a small strangled noise in his throat, hand trembling as he took the mug from her. He held it as though it were a treasure, one of the priceless items that he cleaned with care in his pawn shop and placed on a shelf with a price nobody could afford. And then as he looked down at the mug, tracing the chip slowly with this calloused thumb, he seemed to process the mustache and the words.

He laughed.

At first she was completely alarmed by the noise. Then with a large smile spreading quickly across her face, she realized that it was an _honest_ laugh. Not the sarcastic, hollow noise she was used to hearing rattle out of him after he'd belittled someone, or collected their debts. This laughter was genuine, deep and contagious, the lines around his eyes and his face deepened, yet somehow making him appear younger.

She couldn't explain how her heart actually fluttered inside of her chest. A caged bird rattling it's wings for the first time, trying to escape, to fly home, wherever that might be. She wasn't sure what had come over her, but Isabelle decided in that very moment that Mr. Gold was not bad looking at all. She had never really dared to look before, or really thought much about it. From what she had known about him, he was at his best a grumpy unpleasant man and that seemed to eclipse his appearance. But as he laughed and sipped the tea making it appear as though he did indeed have a large black mustache, there was something truly appealing about him that she had never seen before. 

Isabelle bit her lip cutting her smile in half trying to suppress these ridiculous thoughts. Sure he had the rugged sort of appeal going for him behind impeccably tailored suits and his Scottish brogue was quite sexy when he wasn't sneering. She almost scoffed at herself–really? Checking out Mr. Gold? Rock bottom had a whole new meaning. But she couldn't laugh this feeling off. Something new and altogether frightening tugged deeply at her as he pulled the mug from his lips his eyes dancing with another emotion that she had never seen on his face–how many masks did this man wear, honestly?

 “How did you know that this is exactly how I take my tea?” It was a light enough question, he even had a small smirk on his face as he asked it, as though he already knew the answer to the question and was just testing her.

She opened her mouth to answer about another time she obviously made him tea before. That was until she realized she hadn't. Had she? She thought about it for a moment and realized that this had never happened before. And somehow she was having the worst bout of deja vu. How _did_ she know exactly how he took his tea?

He placed the mug down on the coffee table in between stacks of books and piles of papers. She frowned as she sat down on the couch next to him, straightening out her skirt and tucking one leg properly behind the other. “I suppose I made a very good guess.”

He stared at her for a long time. She couldn't gage this particular look on his face considering he had shown her so many new ones in the past fifteen minutes. But something about it gave her that warm toe curling feeling once more. His eyes flickered across hers searching intently for something there and then paused at her lips. He kept his stare there, his eyes darkening and Isabelle hadn't remembered blushing this much in her entire life. Mr. Gold lifted his hand that had been resting on his leg and reached it up almost as though reaching towards her before he closed his fist and redirected it towards picking up his mug of tea giving himself a mustache once again.

This was a very strange night indeed.

  

__--_-_--__

  

The first time Belle woke up in her room without any recollection of going there to sleep in the first place, she assumed she just had strange dreams and must have been incredibly tired. She could have sworn that she was in the library and when a headache overtook her she sat down for a minute. But she had no recollection of going to her room and sleeping. She pushed it aside and didn't think about it very much.

A couple of weeks later when it happened again, she _knew_ something was up. She had gone up to the library to look for a particular book on recipes because she was hell bent on getting Rumplestiltskin to consume something more than a cup of tea and a scone dipped in honey. Dark One or not, the man needed to eat a substantial meal. She had found a couple of options to skim through and sat down on the chaise lounge that was far too comfortable... and warm and... 

She was in her room once again the next morning. This time she couldn't push it aside and just blame it on fatigue or a foggy memory. So Belle, being the curious woman that she was, several weeks later decided to see for herself what was going on. She grabbed a random book that she had wanted to start reading flipping it open, and placed herself on the chaise lounge once again, adjusting her blue dress and her hair until she was comfortable, and in a position that would appear that she was in fact asleep. She placed the opened book on her chest and shut her eyes. She waited for some sort of magic to twist around her or somehow transport her right away but nothing happened.

She wasn't sure how many moments passed, and she struggled not to actually fall asleep. She did do an awful lot of running around all day. And never because Rumplestiltskin demanded it of her. In fact he didn't really ask all that much of her, which was strange considering the whole reason she was here was because he _needed a caretaker to manage his rather large estate_. She had definitely underestimated what he meant by rather large, and found it amusing that the strange man kept to pretty much the same handful of rooms, meanwhile he had a gigantic castle filled with so many places to explore. Either way she woke every day with enthusiasm and curiosity bringing a bit more light into the castle. She began to ponder how exactly to get the curtains down in the great room without causing him to have a conniption, before she heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

She tensed immediately and then remembered she should be pretending to be asleep since that's how she ended up in this whole quest for knowledge to begin with. She settled once again and slowed her breathing down, relaxing her limbs. The familiar noise of the pointed boots that Rumplestiltskin wore tapped against the floor of the library as he walked closer to where she slept. He paused and the silence was palpable. She almost opened her eyes to see what he was doing but her desire to figure out what was going on pushed that action away. Her heart beat thudded wildly as she tried to will it to slow down.

Finally, after what seemed like a long time, she felt the book resting on her chest lift from her as he placed it down on the small table. Her heart stuttered quicker than before at the rush of cool air hitting her. The next thing she knew, she felt wiry, yet strong limbs lifting her from where she was, one arm beneath her neck and head, the other underneath her knees, her gown rustling against him as he walked.

She had to contain the gasp of surprise that almost left her mouth. Of all the things she expected, this was certainly not one of them. She assumed the castle's magic managed to bring her to her room somehow, but she never thought it to be Rumplestiltskin himself. His touch was so incredibly gentle that it had her mind reeling, this was _The Dark One_ after all. The man most feared by all, but never by her. If anything he fascinated her, she always knew there was far more to this man than he let on, so many layers, so many masks. And in this moment he had mystified her and made her heart twinge and her gut flutter.

He placed her ever so softly onto her bed once he reached her room. He even brushed her skirts down modestly for her. She felt herself blushing and almost bit her lip but stopped herself. He then placed the small fur throw blanket that she used for extra warmth over her body. It was quiet again, and yet he had not left the room.

He brushed several locks of hair that had fallen into her face away, and this time she couldn't stop the little noise that left her throat. His calloused, hide like skin was actually soft and very cool to the touch against her pale warm skin. He seemed to stop mid action, afraid she had woken up, but when she made no further noises or moved at all he left the room.

 When Belle was certain that Rumplestiltskin had left, her eyes shot open, and she could not contain the dumbfounded grin that warmed her face.

She never said anything to him, afraid that he would think she was taunting him or embarrassing him; then he would be lashing out and retreating and she would never want that. Not after seeing the tender side of him that he never showed the world, never even showed her, unless he believed she was asleep. She would just have to do her best to drag it out of him when he knew she was conscious.

When she went up to the library the next day to find the book she had started yesterday, her heart stopped beating. She realized that he had put a loose strand of gold in the book where she had left it open on her chest to keep her place while she was 'asleep'. She couldn't explain the tears that stung her eyes, or the way her heart leapt to her throat. It was silly to get so excited and choked up over something as simple as this. But it meant the world to her somehow. She knew that something had drastically changed within her, and she was very much in danger of losing her heart to the man underneath of all of the layers, the man who spun straw into gold and placed it into her books so she wouldn't lose her place.

  

__--_-_--__

  

Isabelle was more than shocked by how easily conversation managed to flow between them. Mr. Gold was actually quite _funny_. She couldn't remember laughing this much before, she was certain if she tried to explain this to any one else in Storybrooke they would think she was completely insane. It almost felt like she was knee deep in a bizarre dream and would wake up tomorrow to find that none if it had ever happened. Why had they never talked before? There were plenty of opportunities, especially doing inventory for several hours but barely a word was exchanged between them unless he was being sarcastic and she was rolling her eyes at him. She had always assumed he disliked her, as he did everyone and kept her distance. Maybe she was wrong.

When Mr. Gold placed his mug of tea down on the cluttered coffee table once again, he paused for a moment leaning over a bit more to look into something that had piqued his interest. Isabelle also leaned closer as well wondering what it was he had spotted and hoped she hadn't left something ridiculous or embarrassing out for him to see. It was one of her sketchbooks that she had haphazardly left open strewn under a pile of papers, a piece of the illustration sticking out.

For about the one hundredth time that night she felt heat flushing her cheeks. She never showed anyone her drawings, not in a very long time at least. Not after her father told her to stop being silly with her dreams of art school and to get a realistic view on the future. So when she was having a rather slow day at the library and her fingers itched to create something, she would pull out her sketchbook and sketch out her dream that would never truly be.

“May I?” he inquired politely, black eyes searching hers as he gestured to the partially hidden drawing.

Isabelle just nodded dumbly as her heart pace quickened. He lifted the papers up off of the sketchbook and placed them down revealing her illustration. Luckily, it was one of her better ones; a detailed pen and ink drawing of an elaborate wooden wheel. It wasn't completely finished yet but all of the major details were in place. She wasn't even sure where she had drawn it from, seeing as she didn't have a reference of a wheel anywhere. She frowned trying to remember even drawing it, but she couldn't seem to.

“Did you draw this?” he practically gasped.

“Yes, but it's not done yet. Just a rough sketch I started,” she replied quickly, bracing for whatever criticism would leave his mouth.

“This is...” he started, and then paused once again lost for words, “ _remarkable_ , truly.”

There was no trace of sarcasm, just his mouth parted in disbelief and his eyes practically memorizing every detail on the page as he held it between his trembling fingers. Her heart crept into her lungs as she realized just how much he meant the words.

“Thank you,” was all she could muster but she hoped he could understand how much she appreciated his compliment, especially since it was coming from him the man who never had a kind word to anyone.

He began to flip through her sketchbook seemingly amazed at each turn of the page by what he saw. A soft charcoal drawing of a rose from her father's shop, a stack of books at the library in pencil. 

“I didn't know that you had such talent. Why haven't you pursued this?” 

Isabelle was for a moment unable to process words into sentences. Was that the second compliment he had given her within seconds? 

“I don't know. My father always thought it was silly. He meant well, I suppose. The art industry isn't exactly lucrative unless you know someone. So, I just do it for fun,” she said.

Mr. Gold didn't seem pleased with her answer, but clenched his jaw into place and turned the page of her sketchbook once again. He stopped for a long time on a self portrait that she did. It had a very strong likeness to her, the softness of the graphite hitting her jawline perfectly, and her hair blurred in a haze of contrast and movement. But there was something off somehow. The way she drew her hair was different, as though she had never worn it that way before and the look in her eyes was unfamiliar, an expression of strength and optimism that she never remembered ever really possessing.

He turned to look at her as if trying to compare the drawing to the real thing; her blush intensified to an alarming shade. He stared at her vehemently and she stared back willing away her embarrassment. She was a grown woman after all and she would not be intimidated by this seemingly new version of Mr. Gold no matter how much his gaze made her heart stutter and stop. She wasn't sure how long this staring match would continue because he seemed quite content with looking at her for the rest of the night. He blinked finally, taking a small bite out of the intensity of his fixation, as he placed the sketchbook down.

“So, what questions did you have for me?” Isabelle asked, keen on taking the subject away from her artwork despite his kind words and compliments.

He didn't seem to compute what she was saying to him, his forehead creased, creating more lines on his face. “Regarding the new books and the first editions?” she added hoping to jog his memory.

“Oh,” he almost sounded disappointed, “yes, perhaps we can discuss that tomorrow. I'll let you get on with the rest of your evening, I'm sure I've taken up enough of your time.” And with that he was grabbing his cane and standing up in one quick motion the cool and collected mask he wore neatly back into place.

It was as if she had blinked and perhaps hallucinated this strangely pleasant yet intense encounter. As though the man she had been talking with tonight was a new favorite character in a book she read and not the man standing before her, staring down at his hands that clutched his cane. 

“It's alright, it was no bother really. I'm not used to having any company to be honest,” Isabelle responded standing up as well adjusting her skirt and biting her lip to hold back from saying anything further. She was slightly depressed realizing the truth in her words. Sure she had friends in Storybrooke, but something was missing, had always been missing. Maybe she was lonely too.

“Please let me know when you've finished that drawing of the wheel. I'm interested in buying it... if it's for sale.”

“Okay,” was the only thing Isabelle could think of to say, stunned beyond belief as she opened the door for him. The man who collected priceless objects, masterpieces, relics; he wanted one of **her** drawings. 

“Good night, Miss French,” he said.

She never noticed how thick his voice was until now. She sank into it like molasses as her slender knees trembled beneath her. 

“Good night, Mr. Gold,” she replied in kind.

He gave her another look, as if it might be the last time he would ever see her. Something about the look made her heart sink. She almost said something but didn't even begin to know what to say or why she should be saying anything in the first place. Tired. She was just tired, that's all. She finally gave him a smile and he gave her the illusion of one and walked through the doorway.

Isabelle shut the door behind him locking it, and pressing her back against it. Her eyes widened and she actually covered her hands over her mouth as she processed what just happened.

She ran any and all memories of conversations and interactions with Mr. Gold before tonight through her mind like shuffling an old deck of cards. Trying to think of an instance in which he showed a slight hint that he barely liked her or even tolerated her.

All she could come up with was one time several years ago when she was still engaged to Gerrard, who had shown up early to pick her up from inventory with Mr. Gold. Poor Gerrard had tried to strike up conversation with the insufferable man only to earn himself death glares and unsettling silence. As dense as he was he managed to get the memo to wait for Isabelle in the car until she was ready.

As the door shut behind her dull fiancé, Isabelle almost opened her mouth to apologize before realizing she hadn't done anything wrong and if anything Mr. Gold should be the one apologizing for being an insociable jerk. It was Gold who opened his mouth first.

“You and I both know that you could do better than _him_ , Miss French.” 

She hadn't known how to respond, realizing that was the closest thing to a compliment that would probably ever leave Mr. Gold's mouth. She found herself utterly speechless, which seemed to do just fine as he turned his back to her and left the room. That being his way of never actually saying “we're finished here, have a good night.” A week later she broke off her engagement to Gerrard, the tiny diamond and band slipping off of her finger far too easily than it should have, as she handed it back to him along with her apology.

That was the only moment should could think of. And for all she knew that wasn't even him being nice, just _observant_. She and Gerrard were an awful fit, from the very beginning but she had stayed because she thought it was the right thing to do, since they had dated all through high school and it was what her father wanted. He was a nice man, handsome and ordinary but he was very one dimensional and _typical_ and she needed someone with depth and flaw and _layers_. And perhaps a thick Scottish brogue.

Her mind and her heart spun as she kicked off her heels and went in search of some much needed wine. She placed the bottle on the table, and rummaged around her kitchen on a mission to find the corkscrew. She needed something to calm her unexplainable nerves, and make her feel less ridiculous. How was it even slightly possible that she was developing a crush on Mr. Gold? Sure she didn't dislike him nearly as much as everyone else in town did, but she also didn't particularly like him either. Or at least she thought she didn't. She never really paid him much attention until tonight when he showed up at her door with those haunted black eyes that she had never seen before. A shiver ran directly through her as she thought of his heated stare searing into her, behind polite manners and a crooked nose, his knuckles turning white where he clutched them at his sides. She leaned on the counter of her kitchen breathing deeply trying to recollect herself, not really knowing when she started this downward spiral of insanity, but trying to will it away.

Perhaps she should invest in a session–or twenty–with Dr. Hopper.

She felt victorious as she found the corkscrew hiding in her junk drawer amongst pens and old packets of soy sauce. She uncorked the Red Moscato in record time and took a gigantic swig right from the bottle, electing to ignore the dishes once more. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, closed her eyes and took another deep breath. Drink, breathe, make a noise that could be considered a laugh or a snort, repeat. She was about to make a drinking game out of her questionable lack of sanity before she was interrupted. 

For the second time tonight there was a knock at her door. Isabelle glared at it. Now who could that possibly be? With a huff she placed the bottle of wine down and took a quick moment to straighten her clothes and pat her thick curls down, before she made her way towards the door unhinging it once again.

She was more than surprised to see Mr. Gold again, and couldn't even attempt to hide the warm smile that heated her features as she looked at him. She half expected him to say that he forgot something, but he didn't. He had the same feral look on his face as when she saw him the first time at her doorway. He appeared to be almost in pain. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to make up his mind on something, and then they snapped open and the intensity of them practically burned.

“Mr Gold-”

Isabelle never got to finish her sentence because his lips pressed softly against hers. 

She wasn't sure which shocked her more; the fact that Mr. Gold, who barely tolerated her for as long as she could remember, who barely acknowledged her until tonight just kissed her, or how much she enjoyed it.

He paused pulling away just slightly, just enough to gage her reaction. His dark eyes searched her stunned cerulean eyes as if looking for something vital, until they realized it was not there. He blinked away an emotion she couldn't even figure out if she tried, and just like that the mask was back up.

“Mr. Gold, I–I,” she paused for an attempt at breathing and a moment to make a coherent sentence, “But I thought you didn't even notice me, or like me for that matter, or anyone. You've never said anything or even indicated...”

He hadn't pulled away entirely and she could smell whatever cologne he was wearing; a heedy combination of wool and cinnamon it did not make the process of sorting out her thoughts easy, at all. He looked more in pain than before but her words were not unkind, more truthful than anything. His lips twinged into a sad sort of self-deprecating smile as he shook his head, and Isabelle's stomach turned.

“I've been a stupid man for a very long time, Miss French. An impossibly long time. It was kind of you to be as polite as you have been but I should not expect you to waste any more of your time on an old **monster**.”

She flinched when he said the word monster. Mr. Gold was a lot of things, but she never considered him a monster. Somehow he had taken her words incorrectly and they were both lost in translation, her still trying to wrap her head around the fact that Mr. Gold might actually like her enough to want to kiss her and him assuming she was horrified or disgusted by him, rather than just stunned by the sequence of events.

“No–you're not a monster, Mr. Gold. I didn't mean...” she didn't even know how to begin to rectify the situation as Mr. Gold pulled away even further from her, probably forever and opened his mouth to muster up some sort of further apology.

Isabelle French was always the _smart_ person. The girl who did the right thing, got good grades, worked hard, never put a toe out of line and always wanted to please everyone around her. She was not reckless. She never really made any mistakes other than being engaged to someone she didn't love and even that, she rectified. She absolutely never made any rash decisions before in her life, she always weighed her options and thought about something for nearly a week before making up her mind. When all had been said and done with her life, she never really felt much of anything, never really felt _alive_. All she could ever remember feeling her whole life was numb and disappointed.

Mr. Gold was almost certainly a mistake. She was pretty sure that she might as well be boarding the Titanic with anything involving this man that she barely even knew, that she barely even talked to until tonight. He would probably wake up tomorrow and be back to normal, sleeping off whatever spell he seemed to be under. She would need about a month, and several bottles of wine to go through the endless lists of reasons why she should just wish him good night, shut the door and act like this never happened and carry on with her predictable little life. 

Isabelle was really tired, and quite frankly bored of doing the predictable thing. She wanted to feel alive and as strange and disturbing as it was to admit, the five seconds that Mr. Gold had softly pressed his mouth to hers was the most alive she had felt in ... she couldn't even remember how long. She wasn't sure when it happened. Maybe it was when he called her drawing remarkable, maybe it was when he drank out of the mustache cup, his eyes alight with amusement. Or maybe it was when he showed up at her door tonight and she felt like she _really_ saw him for the first time. But right now, she decided that she wanted to kiss Mr. Gold. Sanity and reasoning be damned.

Before he could say anything, Isabelle grabbed him by the tie and tugged him back in, pressing her lips clumsily against his.

They both stopped and he seemed to slowly process that she had kissed him back. His eyes widened in astonishment and then seemed to blacken to a very dangerous shade. As Isabelle was about to kick herself for being too bold she heard the clank of his cane hitting the floor of her apartment where he had practically thrown it, before his hands cupped her face and brought their lips together again.

The kiss started off gentle, lips slanting and brushing, his hands holding her face and caressing her cheek. He seemed almost shy, if that was even possible. The thought that the ruthless Mr. Gold, who was the one who kissed her in the first place, was just as unsure as she was in his actions had her making a small whimper against his mouth. At her whimper he kissed her deeper, hungrier, as though it was the only thing he had ever wanted to do.

Then it all happened so fast. Her hands slipping into his hair and– _my God_ how was hair even this soft–his arms wrapped themselves around her, one hand sliding up and tangling in her curls and deepening the kiss. Somehow her door was shut and they were an awkward tangle of limbs and lips and suppressed groans as he pushed her against the back of the door. She gasped against his mouth at the sudden movement, giving his tongue an open invitation to slide against hers. They both moaned, the vibration hitting her nerves and making her tremble.

He tasted like honey and tea and something spicy that she couldn't quite name. That mixed with the twinge of wine still on her tongue had Isabelle feeling dizzy. He was grasping at her, fingers bunching against the soft fabric of her sweater, holding her as if she would turn to sand at any moment and slip through his hands. 

He was pulling away suddenly and she noted with an almost smirk that he was practically panting for air. It was a revelation to see the man who was always so tightly pulled together, always wearing the mask, to slowly bit by bit come undone, at _her_ cause. She wondered, somewhere deep and dark and humming guiltily within her what it would be like to see him truly come undone, to watch him unravel beneath her.

He tried to catch his breath and Isabelle realized that she was also trying to summon her composure which had taken a leave of absence not too long ago.

“You and I both know that you can do far better than me, _Isabelle_.” Hearing her name slide through his lips in that lilting accent of his pleased her far more than she could have imagined. The man so taken with addressing everyone with prefixes and surnames all but growling her first name against her ear as his body hovered over hers and his hand grasped her cheek.

She steeled against his intense gaze, not breaking eye contact as she unconsciously licked at her kiss swollen mouth. His eyes followed the path of her tongue fervently.

“No one decides that but me,” Isabelle replied with confidence she wasn't aware that she possessed until now.

He groaned, a noise he couldn't suppress even if he had tried, and it tugged within her, coiling tightly between her legs. Their mouths connected again as if they were always meant to be that way, and she ran her hands up underneath of his suit jacket and managing to slide him out of it. She meant to pull away to set the jacket down neatly somewhere, but he would not let her go and instead he just dropped it to the floor disregarding the expensive garment completely. His mouth slipped from hers leaving a warm trail of kisses against her cheek and down her neck. With his lips and deliberate tongue caressing the juncture of her ear and neck Isabelle was certain she forgot how to breathe, how to function. Her fingers thrusted into his soft hair again as she bit her lip and moaned.

Mr. Gold's teeth grazed her neck and she tightened her grip on him, amazed at how he was able to reduce her to a whimpering trembling mess of limbs with his mouth alone. His hands were pulling her sweater out of her skirt and crawling up her sides. The direct contact of his cool calloused fingers against her over heated skin had her gasping. 

She hadn't even realized that he was backing her towards the couch until she bumped a leg into the coffee table, the pair almost colliding onto the floor in a mess before he managed to catch her, and she managed to catch him realizing he was leaning on his bad leg.

“Stupid bloody coffee table,” was all he muttered before she dissolved the intense silence with a breathless giggle. That rarely seen smile graced his swollen lips that she ached to kiss again before his lips hungrily found hers. 

They found the couch, him falling onto it first, and then pulling her into his lap. Her pale long legs clumsily straddled him one on either side, as she sat on top of his thighs. His hands grasped her waist, and slid up her back underneath of her sweater again. In one swift motion Isabelle briefly pulled away from him to pull the sweater over her head and throw it off onto the floor. He growled against her mouth as she pulled him by his thick black tie and brought him closer to her as she loosened it around his neck and practically yanked it off. His lips were all over her throat, sucking at her collar bone and descending to her pale cleavage peaking out from her bra. He drank her in, greedily trying to touch every part of her newly exposed skin. His wandering tongue dipping at the bra cup's edge made concentrating almost impossible as she began to fumble with the buttons on his checkered shirt. She finally finished unbuttoning and pulling the shirt loose from his trousers before she slid his shirt open pressing her fingertips against his exposed skin.

His fingers danced at her back where the clasp of her bra was, hands shaking as he grumbled something unintelligible–s _tupid bloody women's garments_ –against her before she reached behind and unclasped it for him biting her lip to soften the laughter escaping. He pulled back from her as she slipped the bra straps slowly off of her shoulders and threw it to the floor somewhere with the rest of their clothing debris. Mr. Gold's hands reached her sides while he stared at her as if he didn't believe this was all really happening.

Isabelle couldn't hide the blush climbing from her chest up to her jaw as he openly gawked at her. She bit her lip tighter and he cupped the side of her face. “You are _so_ lovely,” he sighed hoarsely in honest admiration, and she couldn't contain the grin that lit up her face at his words.

She ran her fingers against his chest trailing over his slight but taut, muscular frame humming in appreciation. She hadn't realized how slender he was, with him hiding behind well shouldered suits but his lean muscles and jagged collar bone beckoned to her in a way she didn't know possible. She didn't get the opportunity to explore further because his mouth and his hands descended on her chest. He kissed and sucked gently at the tightening pink nub his hand toying with the other that his mouth could not reach.

Her head fell backwards, her long auburn hair descending and tickling against the pale skin of her back as she whimpered. Her hands knotted into his hair almost scratching at his scalp. His mouth felt _amazing_ against her, and her thighs clenched tighter around his lap as she thought what else his tongue was capable of. His teeth scraped against her taught nipple and that was when all coherent thoughts escaped Isabelle. He thoroughly worshiped each breast, thumbing, nipping and grasping in reverie; she thought and secretly hoped he would never stop. Eventually he did, lifting his mouth from her chest and hesitated before he pressed his nose against her neck inhaling deeply.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, his voice cracking in a hot whisper against her neck. His long bony fingers trailing up her legs on either side of him. They came to the tops of her thighs, sliding up further just barely grazing the lacy edge of her panties.

“Please,” he practically begged her, “tell me to stop.” 

This was her way out, if she wanted it. This was her opportunity to stop him and end _whatever_ was happening between them. She appreciated that he had offered it to her but she had already made up her mind about him. And so she smiled. She grabbed both sides of his face, fingers still trailing at the ends of his graying hair to bring his eyes to meet hers. He seemed desperate, lost at sea and calling out for help; he was the sailor and she was the siren gladly pulling him to the shore.

“Do you want to stop?” she asked.

He swallowed roughly, his Adam's apple shifting. She eyed his neck and his jawline realizing that she itched to kiss him there, to feel his stubble scrape against her lips. He seemed to be in complete turmoil as he tried to answer her. Eventually he looked into her eyes and seemed almost startled by her. “No,” he finally admitted in a broken whisper.

“Good,” Isabelle said, “I don't want you to stop either.”

The realization and acceptance came tumbling around him and he was breathless. She took a deep breath not looking forward to what she was going to tell him next, afraid that he would be heading for the door as fast as he could. _Do the brave thing, and bravery will follow._

“I,” another deep breath, “I've never really done this before. Gerrard and I just never–I never wanted to. I mean I've never...” she quickly said in a jumbled rush of a sentence, squeezing her eyes shut afraid of what consequence this truth would have.

She could almost hear him stop breathing and so she opened her eyes to him. The expression he wore was as if she had said the most perfect thing in the world instead of the embarrassing truth of her virginity. She didn't think his eyes could get any darker but it seemed that they dimmed past the shade of midnight and it clutched at her deep between her thighs. He blinked away the very fierce look in his eyes as clarity tugged him back to reality. He didn't push her away, instead he held his hands still at her waist and looked at her.

“We've gotten far too carried away, we don't have to–” he began to reason. 

“No. Please, I–I want to, with you.” And she did. She couldn't quite figure out how they went from barely knowing one another, to politely talking, to her half naked straddling him on her worn out couch, but here they were. And she wanted this, and more so she wanted _him_. More than she remembered ever wanting anything before. _Carpe Diem_.

“I mean, that is, if you want to...”

He scoffed and she flinched at his reaction. Mr. Gold lifted a hand from her waist to hold her cheek steady, thumb brushing at her lip where she was now nervously toying with it. He stared at her as if she might be certifiable, maybe she was.

“Isabelle,” he whispered her name as if it was his salvation, “it's nothing short of a miracle that you are even still talking to me right now, let alone considering me. _Of course_ I do.”

Before she could fully process his words, his lips descended upon hers and she wrapped her arms around his neck. He wound his hands into her hair and pulled her close against him, their bodies pressing tightly against one another fitting together like magnets. She bit down on his lip before their tongues caressed and she traced the roof of his mouth eliciting a hearty groan. Isabelle tugged at his shirt once again finally pulling it off of his shoulders and trying to bring it off of the tight sinewed muscles of his arms. She was impressed that Mr. Gold managed to undo his cufflinks and discard the shirt all while still sucking readily on her tongue. 

She thanked her lucky stars for consistently 'accidentally' wandering into the trashy romance section of the Storybrooke library. At least she had some sort of notion about what was supposed to be going on thanks to the over flourished novels with men in flowing white shirts and women who's hair always seemed to be blowing in the wind adorning the covers. The heated blushes and little noises she made as she turned each page could not even begin to hold a torch to what was actually happening. What it felt like to be touched and ache and kissed _properly._

She pulled her mouth from his pressing open mouthed kisses against the stubble of his jaw, and letting her teeth clip against where his neck and jaw met. He let out a faltering breath and she had to hide her proud smirk against his neck. His fingers strayed up her legs once again, pushing the plaid fabric of her skirt up higher. She shifted in his lap to help shimmy the skirt up and accidentally pressed against him feeling just how much all of this was truly effecting him. His hands clasped tightly around her legs as he groaned and she gasped.

She pressed her hips down against him again, harder and far more deliberate and he almost tore her skirt off before shoving it up to her waist and tightly grabbing the flesh of her arse. His fingers clawed at the lace band of her panties before dipping his fingers down and slipping just barely between her slick folds. His long finger spread her wetness up and pressed against her swollen clit.

Isabelle cried out, gripping her burgundy nails into the trim muscles of his shoulders. Their lips met but they did not kiss so much as she panted and he growled hot air against her mouth. His finger slid slowly inside of her, stretching her and pressing at the spot that ached to be touched. Everything was pressure and building hotly as she held onto his shoulders and he pushed a second finger in. He tenderly, slowly slid his fingers out and thrust them back into her hitting something that had her begging him to not stop. 

She hadn't even realized that she whimpered “Please,” until she heard it hanging in the air.

He built a steady pace pushing his fingers in and out of her as his thumb pressed at her clit; the pressure ached sweetly, as his other hand pinched a hardened nipple between his calloused fingertips. She was surprised by how quickly he undid her. Feeling like a rubber band stretching and stretching and finally snapping apart into a bright oblivion. She trembled as he pressed and held his fingers in place riding out her crescendo of pleasure.

When Isabelle's heart beat thudded in her head and she slowly began to fall back into reality, he pulled his fingers out of her and she crashed her lips against his. The kiss was rough, more of teeth clanking and lips bruising as her hands fought with the buckle of his trousers, straying for a moment and grabbing his strained cock through the fabric.

He made a noise, a strangled sort of hallelujah catching in his lungs, and the noise had her shaking upon the realization of just how much he wanted this, wanted _her_. She toyed with the buckle of his belt, finally opening it and yanking it in a swift motion pulling it free from the belt loops. The look in his eyes was of shocked admiration before she unbuttoned the trousers and wrapped her fingers tightly around his thick hardened length. He hissed or growled, she wasn't sure, but when she brushed her thumb against the slick swollen head he grabbed at her.

Isabelle was certain that there would be bruises where his fingers clamped down at her waist and sprawled across her arse. A chill ran through her as she realized she _wanted_ there to be tiny bruises. Proof of this between them, proof of Mr. Gold letting go of control and moaning uncontrollably for her.

He seemed to regain some level of composure for a moment as his shaking hands reached to pull her underwear off of her. Isabelle lifted up from his lap to slide the black fabric off of one leg, almost toppling over in the process, before letting it dangle on the knee of her other. He pulled his trousers and boxers down, as she helped him bring them down past his knees, trying to be mindful of his leg before he was pulling her back into his lap.

He held her there for a moment as he stared so deeply into her that she almost looked away. But she didn't; she stared back and nodded at him with a smile, reminding him that she wanted this. He guided her hand to hold his cock in place as she controlled how deep he went. She lifted her hips above him, pressing the head of him against her and it seemed that they both forgot how to breathe. She slid his head against her slippery entrance, gliding up to her clit for a moment, unable to soften the whimper leaving her mouth. His eyes swept over her like an artist trying to remember every stroke, every smudge, every flowing color of a masterpiece. He settled again at her eyes, as she slowly sunk her hips down and he pushed inside of her. She sucked in a deep breath; it ached for a moment and as she slid all of the way down until their bodies were flush, it ached far more.

Mr. Gold held her, his arms around her waist and touched her back. He kissed at her neck sweetly trying to brush away the pain with his mouth and touch. He whispered _sweetheart_ as he kissed at her throat, her jaw and across her cheek before he pushed a stray lock of hair in her face back behind her ear. She opened her eyes finally and the way he was looking at her, she couldn't explain. As if this was all he ever needed, this was completion.

Isabelle lifted her hips up and brought them back down slowly again, her legs quivering. It still ached but she could see past it now, as he stretched her, filling her completely. They kissed tenderly while she tried to find a slow and steady pace, her breath began to hitch as that taut desire burned inside of her once again.

And then she couldn't move fast enough, whimpering while he held her hips in place and thrusted up into her. She shifted her pelvis back and forth instead of up and down and again he made that sound again, that revelation that made her light headed. They found a steadiness in this, her hands now clawing at his shoulders as their hips moved with one another. He grunted muffled sweet nothings against her throat and it could have been in Latin for all she cared, the thick Scottish twang to his voice all adding to the building ache inside of her that needed to be addressed. The thrusts became harder, frustrated and tighter building and building, throbbing for a release. 

His hand caught between them just brushing his thumb at her and she cried out for him, shattering into a million pieces once again, nails digging into his back, her mouth finding his neck and biting down and sending him over the edge as well. The noise he made, she made a mental note of it, officially became her new favorite sound. They held one another there for a while, her face in the crook of his neck, his buried in her tangled curls. It could have been a minute or the entire night, she wasn't able to gage time or gravity or movement anymore.

She winced when he pulled out of her but he held her still, as if he never intended to let her go. He regarded her, touching her cheek and asking her everything and nothing all at once.

In that moment she realized this wasn't a mistake she would second guess tomorrow. She wasn't someone he would disregard anymore, she was someone he would burn for. Everything had changed so quickly so drastically, Isabelle didn't know up from down. 

She smiled, and maybe this was the first time she ever smiled before, like this at least. He smiled back shyly, but completely besotted and she couldn't help but crash her lips to his, winding her fingers into his hair once again.     

 


	2. Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was almost impossible to recognize the man who grasped her right now, a man who appeared to be nearly possessed by the sight of her, to the man whom a half an hour ago nervously poked at his French fries covered in ketchup and fumbled over his words. 
> 
> Her heart thudded violently in her chest creating a cacophony of blood rushing to her gut and lowering still. He took in every inch of her, unable to get enough before settling back and locking eyes in the longest staring contest she had ever had. She reached out to him, slowly loosening his tie before he caught her by the wrist.
> 
> “Oh no. I’m not quite done warming you up yet, dearie,” he said in a growl of a promise.
> 
> She didn’t know why the way dearie rolled off of his tongue had such a profound effect on her, but it did.

 

 

 

 

Belle had remained at the outskirts of the entrance to the grand room for an unreasonable amount of time. She stood there balancing the tray of food and tea, nibbling on her lip as she watched him spinning. It was like seeing an altogether different person when he spun. When he spun, Belle decided that he was no longer _The Dark One_ instead he was simply just Rumplestiltskin. She imagined that was the sort of man he was before he became the way he is now, though she hadn't had the courage to ask him about it just yet. He was so quiet and calm, his eyes glazed over in a focused trance, his lips pursed in concentration. He was not sneering, or cackling or gesturing his long bony fingers everywhere. It was for that reason that Belle hated to ever interrupt him. It actually put her at ease watching him. There were very few things that she enjoyed more than being nose deep into a great book, but watching him spin was one of her new favorite hobbies.

“Didn't anyone ever tell you it's not polite to stare, dearie?”

Belle jumped, almost toppling the tray all over the stone floor, but managed to catch and balance herself just in time. His voice was deeper than usual, more at ease than the faltering pitch she was used to. She had forgotten the reason that she had come here in the first place. Dinner. She had finally made what she believed to be a truly successful meal that maybe _he_ would even eat.

“Sorry I uh–didn't want to interrupt. I made your dinner,” she fumbled over the words still trying to recollect herself and will away the blush on her cheeks. He stared at her like she was a new relic amongst his collections that he had no idea where to place.

“I'm not hungry,” he said with a wave of his hand and returned to his spinning.

Belle's cheeks flushed red in anger instead of embarrassment, for a change. She had spent the last two weeks perfecting this recipe of Sheppard's pie–which was delicious if she could say so herself–and she would be damned if he was not going to at least try it.

She walked briskly into the room and placed the tray down onto the elongated table with a loud clank. He followed her with his eyes still moving his hands as he spun, but curious by her actions. After she placed the tray down she stalked over to his wheel and stood in front of him, her hands on her hips, her lips pursed.

“Rumplestiltskin. You. Need. To. Eat.”

He stared at her for a moment and opened his mouth to reply.

“–Scones dipped in honey do not count as eating,” she interrupted him before he had a chance to speak. “I don't care if you're **_The Dark One_** or not, you need to eat. I have worked hard on making you something that I think you might like and you are going to eat it. I don't care whether or not you are hungry.”

He tilted his head at her, regarding her as though she were a puzzle that he had every intention of trying to solve, but didn't have all of the pieces. Her hands were still on her hips as she glared down at him doing her best impression of being menacing, though she figured she wasn't doing a very good job if the amusement written on his face was anything to go by.

He didn't say a word; instead he stood from his wheel now at eye level with her. She did not break her stare and a small smirk started to form on his lips. He strolled past her as he approached the table with the tray; he sniffed it curiously and turned back to her.

“It's poisoned isn't it? Is this your elaborate plan to attempt to kill me? It's going to take far more than that.”

“Rumplestiltskin!” Belle cried in frustration practically throwing her arms in the air. “Just eat, please.”

He sighed as he sat down at the table, drawing the tray closer to himself. He stared up at her wearily one last time before putting a spoonful in his mouth very slowly.

He chewed for a few moments making a pleased noise as he continued to eat.

“Do you like it?” Belle asked hopefully.

“Well it's not poisoned at least,” he said in between mouthfuls.

“I will choose to take that as a compliment,” she said nodding before sitting at the table next to him and grabbing a plate for herself. He stared at her as if she had grown a second head.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm eating.” Belle replied gesturing to the food in front of them as if the answer wasn't so obvious.

“With–with me?”

“Well, yes. If that's alright with you?”

He blinked several times trying to wipe away the look of shock from his face. He took a sip from the chipped teacup he used now, hiding his lips before muttering, “It's no matter.”

Belle smiled coyly behind her mouthful of food. Progress. This was definitely progress.

 

 

__--_-_--__

 

 

 

When Rumplestiltskin awoke he was initially convinced that it had all been a dream. It wouldn't have been the first time, he had many dreams like it in which Belle was still alive and by some divine miracle she didn't turn him away. It was the only comfort he had, and when he woke it always seemed that life was the real nightmare. But it had never been so vivid, so perfect. He could even still taste her, feel the gentle dip of her hip, hear her soft moans. His hand trembled as he remembered the brightness of her eyes searing through him and yanking at his soul, or what was left of it. He placed his arm across the bed in vain, sprawling his fingers outward against the fabric, but of course no one was there. No one was ever there. He took a twisted form of comfort in knowing that.

It wasn't until he felt the absolute agony in his leg as though he had attempted a marathon last night that he remembered, he was still Mr. Gold.

As he blinked away the haziness often accompanied with waking up, and with intense dreams of Belle, he realized this was not his room. This was not the cold empty space in The Dark Castle that he barely slept in. This was not Mr. Gold's master suite with deep red walls and ridiculously expensive golden sheets. He then came to the staggering realization that last night was not one of his perfect dream sequences, but in fact a reality. He really had attempted a marathon last night.

He stared around the room, a soft yet bright blue color with accents of deep chocolate and mismatched furniture. There were some drawings hanging up on walls, colorful photographs, intricate and ornate frames in pewters and whites. The blanket currently covering him was, ironically enough a deep golden color. There were books, literally everywhere. Spilling out of a bookcase that was far too small to even attempt to hold the sheer amount of them. Haphazard stacks against a wall with no noticeable organization to any of it.

His clothes were folded neatly on a worn in floral patterned chair near the bed, his cane propped up against it. He was waking up in Belle– ** _no_ –**Isabelle's bed, in her room. Alone. And that's when his heart stopped beating.

Stupid. After all of this time, he was still a very stupid man, a very selfish man. What on earth had he been thinking last night? He had practically ran here–crippled leg be damned–to see her face, to convince himself that his True Love was in fact alive and well. A vague memory of seeing her occasionally through the last cursed twenty-eight years wasn't enough.

That should have been enough, just to see her. Of course it wasn't. After all this time thinking his Belle was dead only to realize that she had been alive, he almost fell to her feet, crumbled to his knees and thanked whatever god it was that kept her alive. But instead of the Belle he had known and loved, there was the wide-eyed, somewhat terrified stare of Isabelle French. It was disconcerting to see the consuming beauty that was very much Belle, with eyes that were still so similar, but so different. Looking at him like she was weary of him instead of amused by him. But she smiled all the same, was still polite even though he didn't deserve it and he couldn't bring himself away. Couldn't manage to walk out, he had to just keep staring, memorizing, believing that she was real and not a full-blown hallucination.

And then she had to bring out the damn chipped mustache cup. He almost died then. He might have if she hadn't smiled at him and seemed embarrassed by it. And she knew, _of course she knew,_ how to prepare his tea. Or the perfect replica she drew of his spinning wheel. And the self portrait that was very much Belle, _not_ Isabelle. It was all too much hope for him to be able to fathom, he had never had so much of it before and didn't even know how to carry it all.

He even left initially. Thinking he never had a chance with this cursed version of themselves. She was just being nice to him and nothing could ever come of it. But he couldn't stay away. He sent her away before and he was never going to let that happen again, cursed or not. He had paced in the hallway outside of her apartment like a madman until he couldn't stand it any longer. Kissing her should have been enough. Just a soft brush of their lips, to be positive that True Love's kiss didn't break this specific curse. He should have made up some half-assed excuse and carried on with his evening.

Maybe if he was brave–who was he kidding why would he start being brave now of all times especially regarding Belle–he would have asked to take her out on a date or something normal for this world, if she didn't slap him. But he couldn't. Not when he saw those impossibly blue eyes that haunted him. Or the way she rolled her lip between her teeth and still smiled at him even though he couldn't understand why. It was as if he short-circuited and he was just as much wrapped around her polished finger as he ever was before.

If she hadn't kissed him back he might have been a better man; he might have done the right thing, but of course she had kissed him back. And she wanted more. The little whimper she made, the way her fingers wove into his hair as though they always knew how. Her slender legs straddling him, tongue drinking him in. It was remarkable that he even had the strength to find words for a feeble attempt to stop. But of course she didn't want to stop. Why did he think any version of Belle, memories or not, wouldn't be designed to set his lungs on fire and make his nerve crumble into oblivion.

And she had no idea who he really was, who she really was. All she knew of was the colossal disappointment of man, ruthless and cruel and he supposed–with a sarcastic smile–really not much different than how he was before and somehow she had loved him then, monster and all. But this version, this Mr. Gold didn't make exceptions for Isabelle the way that _he_ had for Belle before. He scanned through Mr. Gold's memories realizing that Gold did admire Isabelle, would look at her–not in the polite way that he should have been, he acknowledged with a blush–when he was absolutely sure she hadn't noticed. He thought that she was beautiful and probably the only intelligent person in Storybrooke but Gold was cold and never let anything on because that's just how he was. He would have carried on his days never breathing a word of it to Isabelle, and most certainly dying alone. Even the cursed version of himself knew that he didn't deserve Isabelle, and that he should never even try for her sake. Yet again the parallel to his actual self was astounding.

But before, Belle had practically ripped the goodness out of him. Dug her nails so deep underneath of his flesh for weeks and weeks until she found it and wretched it from him with a wide, all knowing, satisfied grin until he had no choice but to acknowledge it. She wouldn't let it go, and knew there was something there and if she had not done so, he would have never said a word, would have never kissed her if she hadn't initiated it first.

Isabelle had not bothered, too busy being cursed and not herself and therefore not batting an eyelash at the crippled, old, jerk known as Mr. Gold. He could remember the disconcerting looks she would occasionally give him during inventory, or how she handed him the rent money sometimes without even looking up from the book that she was reading and it ached within him. And why would she? When he was taciturn and just plain unpleasant to be around.

But something had changed when he showed up last night. She smiled at him, laughed at him, hell she even _blushed_ , quite a bit. If she had not clutched him by his tie and kissed him back he would have thought himself insane to believe she actually enjoyed his company at all. But apparently she did.

He was still trying to wrap the idea around his head that Belle was still alive and couldn't quite accept the fact that she wanted him, that he had made love to her last night, several times. He couldn't contain the half smile, half smirk of pride with himself before shaking his head and remembering that he was the worst person in the world. How could he have let this all happen so fast?

He didn't deserve a chance with Belle to begin with. It was unfathomable that she was his true love, that this beautiful, courageous, wonderful woman could possibly love him, that he could possibly be so lucky in the first place. When he believed she died, it of course made the most sense. She was too good, too promising all at once and he wasn't allowed to be happy-didn’t deserve to be happy.

He certainly didn't deserve a second chance with her, after throwing her out and pretending like he didn't care. But there she was alive and well, answering her door and making him tea, and smiling softly at him, kissing him, yanking his shirt open, gasping against him.

But now, what had he done? He had taken advantage, practically attacked her last night. She deserved to be courted, properly for an extended amount of time. To be given everything she could possibly ever want, and then, _maybe_ then she would have him. But in a special way in a bed with flowers and candles and not half naked and rushed on her couch like uncontrollable hormonal teenagers. Even if she was a willing participant, he couldn't believe he had done so, and the empty bed next to him proved there would be no third chance. He had truly fucked it all up again and it was amazing how it was even possible, after barely having her back at all.

He dressed quickly, wondering how long Isabelle had waited to run from her bed when she awoke to find him there. He seriously contemplated choking himself to death with his tie as he knotted it.

“Good Morning,” a tiny angel like voice interrupted him from his self-loathing.

He whirled around to see Isabelle standing in the room, fully dressed in a light blue sundress and white cardigan staring shyly at him. Her hair was damp, fresh from an apparent shower, the tips of it dripping onto her white cardigan and she nibbled on her lip in a way that he wished she would stop so that he could instead.

“Indeed it is,” he replied and the accompanying blush and smile he received warmed him throughout.

“Sorry that I left so early, I uh–didn't really have anything for breakfast, or to eat in general other than wine or freezer burned ice cream,” she paused. “So I picked up a couple of things. I figured you would be hungry,” the way she babbled on nervously made his heart actually flutter.

She hadn't left because she regretted it; she left to get him breakfast. He almost laughed. He should have known that even Isabelle had far too much Belle deep within her to give up on him so easily. He nodded instead of saying anything, not trusting his mouth because he might declare how much he loved her instead of thanking her for breakfast. He followed her out of her room and into her kitchen like a lost animal being guided home.

Sitting on the table was a fresh plate of scones, the honey bear she used for the tea next to the plate. Scones dipped in honey, his food of choice at the Dark Castle. He remembered a time when Belle would scold him for barely eating and if it was anything it would be scones dipped in honey. Again he wanted to laugh by how ridiculously funny and impossible this whole situation really was.

“I wasn't sure what you liked, but I figured who doesn't like scones? So I picked some up from Granny's, there's fruit too if you like, and some bacon,” she said hopefully, gesturing to the table. They sat down across from one another as he stared at the food in front of him.

“Scones are my favorite, actually,” he couldn't help the wide toothy smile that he gave her and he assumed the mirroring grin on her face was a good sign.

“So, I know how to prepare your tea, _and_ I know your favorite food, perhaps I'm psychic,” she teased and the fact that he and Belle– _Isabelle_ –were sitting across from one another, her teasing him playfully, and eating breakfast together felt like yet another dream.

“Perhaps you are, or perhaps you just happen to know exactly what I like, _Isabelle_ ,” he replied as he eyed her for a great deal of time, longer than was probably appropriate, and grabbed a scone that was still slightly warm to touch. Her cheeks flushed almost scarlet before the teakettle whistled behind, and Isabelle stood up quickly to get it. He watched her make the tea, still amazed that even though she had no memories of who she really was, she still remembered how he took his tea.

She returned to the table with two mugs, a normal dark blue one for him and a white one for her that read: “I've got 99 problems and they're all fictional characters,” he inwardly laughed again, the irony not lost on him.

“Are you fresh out of mustache mugs, then?” he quipped.

She giggled and he swore that it was the most beautiful sound in the world. “I actually did the dishes, thank you very much!” she declared proudly, “and yes, I know I have an affinity for strange tea cups and mugs, with silly sayings,” she rolled her eyes with a smile as she sat back down.

“I'm actually rather fond of that chipped mustache one,” he said in all honestly and her smile widened.

“Well then, I'll make sure to keep it safe, just for you,” she responded, a playful tone to her voice.

“Good,” he replied before taking a bite into breakfast.

It was comfortably quiet while they ate exchanging shy smiles behind their chewing. He tried not to stare at her too much, but found it almost impossible not to. It still startled him how beautiful she really was, how real she actually was. She would occasionally look at him, the blush from earlier having not since left her cheeks.

It wasn't until they had both finished eating that the awkwardness hung in the air. He had no idea how to proceed, seeing as he never really did this sort of thing, and naturally Mr. Gold never did either. He had this all backwards, he was supposed to tell her that he liked her and ask her out first, but somehow they had skipped that bit. He realized now that he had never really said that he even liked her, this all just sort of happened and he didn't even know if she liked him, or how much she actually did if that was even in the realm of possibility. For all he knew this was just a one night of rebellion for Isabelle French. The thought nearly broke him. But he was going to at least try and not fuck this up for the third time.

They both went to speak at the same time, the words a cluster bunched together before they both stopped, and Isabelle laughed away the awkwardness.

“You first, dearie,” he said and hid a smirk as he noticed the way that she visibly shivered when he said dearie.

“No it's alright, go ahead,” Isabelle encouraged waving him off.

He breathed deeply. This was ridiculous. He practically made deals with the devil, he was the most feared being in all of the realms, people were scared to even say his name, even in Storybrooke. But here he was terrified to ask the woman whom he knew to be his true love, out, on a normal date. After a night spent making love to her. How had this even happened? Where had he gone wrong? Better yet, where had he gone _right_?

“If you don't have any plans, I was wondering if you would like to have dinner with me tomorrow evening,” it was a rush of words, he tried to sound calm and collected but his voice felt thicker and heavier than the honey he had just eaten.

She stared at him with a look very much of complete amazement, followed by amusement, followed by that large grin that Belle often wore when he did something she hadn't expected, or was happy about. It was getting more and more difficult to remind himself that this was Isabelle French, not Belle.

“Mr. Gold, are you asking me out on a date?”

“Yes,” he said. “That is the idea, if you'll have me. I know I've done this a bit out of order. I believe that the status quo is to ask a woman out before showing up at her apartment in the middle of the night and _attacking_ her,” he tried to make light of it and it earned a laugh from Isabelle.

“Yes, I'd love to,” she answered, and his blackened heart thudded uncontrollably in his chest, “I've never really been one for convention anyhow, doing things out of order is far more exciting.”

Rumplestiltskin couldn't remember the last time that he had felt so happy, or hopeful. He also hadn't remembered smiling before, genuinely at least, like this. And yet since he stumbled to her apartment door last night it seemed that was all he could do. It was hard not to, with Isabelle's soft voice and the way her hair was starting to dry and curl up at the ends. It was hard not to smile at her with the way she was smiling at him.

“Can I ask you something?” she asked, with a sudden, slight and adorable crinkle at her forehead.

And just like that the hope he had just been holding close and embracing was fumbling out of his hands. Oh no. What did that mean? What was this _something_ , and why did she want to ask about it?

“Of course,” he replied his voice much stronger than he felt.

She started to giggle then, and he felt like he had really missed something. “What is your name?” she finally said once she had calmed herself from laughing. “I'm sorry, I just realized that I don't even know your first name, and it just struck me as funny. We really are doing this quite a bit out of order.”

He laughed too, especially when it took him more than a quick second to realize his technical first name in Storybrooke since no one dared to call him anything other than Mr. Gold. “It's Robert. My name is Robert.”

“Robert Gold,” she said seeing how the words tasted in her mouth and tilting her head to the side as if trying to figure out how she felt about it. She frowned, her forehead creasing once again.

“Does it not meet with your approval?” he teased in mock offense.

“No!” she quickly defended, “it's a very good, ordinary name. I just expected something... different I suppose.”

“Like what?”

She seemed to ponder that over for a moment before shaking her head.

“Oh, I don't know. Honestly, Robert is a good name.”

“Well not everyone can have such a lovely name as Isabelle,” he said and he couldn't believe they were actually engaged in a normal conversation, flirting with one another.

“I still can't believe that you are calling me anything other than Miss French. Ever since I can remember that is all you've ever called me,” she said, almost speaking her train of thought out loud and shaking her head.

“I can call you Miss French if you'd prefer–”

“No!” Isabelle immediately interrupted him. “No. I like when you call me Isabelle.”

“Isabelle it is then.”

She frowned again for a reason he couldn't understand before she seemingly shook her head and the expression, a soft smile on her face replacing it. She gathered up the dishes from the table putting them in the dishwasher.

“Well it's almost 8:30 and I should eventually get myself together and open the shop,” Mr. Gold said regrettably, much rather wanting to sit here and stare at her all day. Maybe he could sell the shop and just make staring at her his new career, he already had enough money.  

“Right, yes. I should probably open the Library too,” Isabelle agreed.

He held open her blue pea coat for her to place her arms in, his cane hooked over his arm. She bundled herself in the coat as he opened the door for her. She locked the door behind both of them as they made their journey down the winding staircase and to the entrance of the library. He marveled that his cane clicked against the stairs at the same beat as her heels, which incidentally was the same sound his heart made in his throat. He also hadn’t even realized that her arm was linked through his, as if it was always meant to be there.

“I'll pick you up tomorrow at 7?” he asked wondering if she would somehow come to her senses and change her mind deciding that she didn't want to see him ever again, which he thought would be reasonable.

“That sounds good, I'll see you then.”

“Thank you again for breakfast,” Mr. Gold said.

“Any time,” Isabelle replied.

Now came the awkward moment of not knowing the proper way to say goodbye to her. He wanted nothing more than to press her against the wall and kiss her until neither of them could breathe, but that seemed a little too forward. A hug seemed, well just _strange_. And the thought of just saying goodbye without even slightly touching her, actually felt painful.

“Oh, and by the way...” Isabelle murmured, leaning in closer to him her lips almost touching his ear, her hot breath tickling down his neck and touching his spine.

He visibly swallowed. He would be a perfect gentleman. He would keep his hands to himself; he could do this. He would do this. He had spent centuries alone; he could absolutely manage this. Cold showers. Cold showers would definitely help. But why on earth did she have to make this so difficult?

“Yes?”

“I rather quite _enjoyed_ the whole being attacked part,” she whispered.

And with that she walked away sending him a wide conspiratorial smile over her shoulder and paused at the entrance to the Library. He stared after her for a while trying not to fall over himself, blinking and taking in shallow breaths and wondering, for about the hundredth time this morning, how he ended up here. She waved at him innocently before shutting the door behind her.

This was going to be far more difficult than he had ever imagined.

 

 

 

/////

 

 

 

 

Regina Mills was not having a very good morning. She slammed the door of her car behind her, hoping that the slight bit of aggression would make her feel better, but it didn’t suffice. She sighed a short black strand out of her face and stood at the corner across the street from the library. She blinked several times as if trying to reassure herself that what she was seeing wasn’t actually happening. She watched as Isabelle French and Mr. Gold walked out of Isabelle’s apartment building above the Library _, together,_ arms linked with one another. Isabelle leaned in towards him as if whispering into his ear. She pulled away with a large grin wrapped across her face before strolling over to the library entrance. Gold followed her with his eyes, his jaw slack and nearly touching the ground.

And-wait a minute was he wearing the same gray-checkered shirt that she saw him in yesterday when he collected the rent? She couldn’t remember Gold repeating an outfit, well ever. If it had been anyone other than Isabelle French and Mr. Gold she would have almost thought that he spent the night. What in the _hell_ was going on?

Mr. Gold didn’t even notice Regina gaping at him as he crossed the street almost in a haze as his cane clicked against the pavement.

“Mr. Gold,” Regina said smoothly, snapping him out of his state.

“Ah-Madame Mayor, good morning,” Gold said as his calm and collected composure surfaced once again. He didn’t stop walking and continued in the direction of the Pawn Shop.

Regina went to open her mouth but Gold interrupted her immediately.

“I really must open the shop up. If you’ll excuse me… please,” he exaggerated the last word, flashing her a sharp, sardonic smile.

Her mouth shut as if of its own accord, and she found herself unable to say anything further. She followed him with her eyes as she stood at the corner of the street in shock. Something was going on, and she was going to get to the bottom of it.

 

 

 

/////

 

 

 

 

Isabelle struggled to do anything remotely productive after she walked into the library. The first thing she did upon entering the building was sit in the chair at the front desk and slide down into it until her head rested against the back of it. From there she proceeded to stare at the tiled ceiling trying to figure out the drastic and incredibly interesting turn her life had just taken.

Breathe. She had to remember to breathe. That was a start.

She couldn’t decide if she wanted to laugh or spin around in her chair a hundred times but she almost felt that she had to celebrate wherever this change in her life was taking her.

Isabelle was fairly certain that all she needed to do was get about 7 cats and just call it a life of being alone and she was also confident that she would have been perfectly okay with that. Men never really chalked up to the layered, flawed and interesting characters that filled her books. All of that was true until last night when Mr. Gold showed up at her door.

Never in a million years would she have imagined that he of all people would be the one to win her over. And yet, somehow he was.

She almost couldn’t match the image and persona that she always had of Mr. Gold to the man who slept next to her last night, who in his sleep pulled her against his side and tangled her in his arms, not letting go. The man who smiled at her and made her blush and smile back as though it was the only thing she was capable of doing. The man who tied his tie with the most morose look on his face this morning until she said good morning to him startling the happiness and surprise from him. The man who was… taking her out to dinner tomorrow night!

Maybe he fell really hard and damaged his left frontal lobe, like that guy-Phineas Gage-but instead of changing for the worst, he changed for the better. Because as far as she was concerned, the man who she spent the night with, the man who she gave her virginity to was _not_ Mr. Gold, but some wonderful, curious imposter whom she couldn’t seem to control herself around.

Isabelle was worried that she would feel differently today, either filled with regret or just an overall feeling of differentness, and she did feel different. As though she had been sitting in a dark room all night trying to read and someone finally turned on a light. Everything was clearer, brighter, more focused. She just never imagined that it would be Mr. Gold to flick the switch. The difference was tangible, she could almost grasp it; it warmed her and filled her with a sense of peace she wasn’t sure she had ever experienced before. In all honesty none of it made any sense; this was **_so_** not like her.

But last night felt like it might have been the first of her life and she wasn’t going to decide to be cautious now, it was far too late for that. She covered her face with her hands unable to control the laugh escaping from her. She should probably schedule a session with Dr. Hopper.

Isabelle was ripped from her thoughts upon the sound of the library doors opening. How long had she been sitting there thinking for? An hour? 2? She was startled because visitors at the library were pretty scarce. A blonde woman she had never seen before cautiously walked into the building.

Isabelle stood up from the chair smoothing out her dress and walking around the front desk to greet this new patron. “Hi! Can I help you with something?” Isabelle asked suddenly realizing how over enthusiastic she probably sounded, she was just so surprised to actually have someone here, an adult someone at least, because it was usually a rare occasion.

“Hi… Yeah. I’m looking for some comic books or graphic novels for my-er-um… Henry. I know he really likes to read,” the woman babbled on awkwardly.

“Oh! You mean Henry Mills? He’s a frequent visitor here! If I remember correctly he is in the middle of a series and we just got a shipment recently of the next couple of books,” Isabelle said thoughtfully. And realizing how sad it was that her greatest acquaintance in Storybrooke was a 12-year-old boy. Well that was until Mr. Gold’s haunted black eyes, long fingers and crooked smile wound up at her front door.

“Oh great! You seem to know your stuff um…”

“Isabelle. Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself! Isabelle French, resident librarian here, well obviously.” She said sheepishly.

“Nice to meet you Isabelle, I’m Emma Swan. I’m visiting here,” she stopped to think of how to finish the sentence, “for a bit.”

“Well it’s a pleasure to meet you Emma. Are you a relative of Henry’s?”

She seemed to process that question for a few moments as she stuffed her hands in the pockets of her red leather jacket. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

What a strange way of answering that question. Isabelle was already curious about this Emma Swan. Although she had a somewhat gruff exterior she seemed pretty genuine. There was something about her that she liked right away but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

“Well, follow me. I’ll show you where the series is,” Isabelle suggested as she led the way through the bookcases.

“Thank you for this,” Emma said. “He’s been obsessed with this weird ‘Once Upon A Time' book that is taking his imagination to a whole other crazy level. I’m hoping a different book will get it off of his mind.”

“Hmm… ‘Once Upon A Time,'” Isabelle murmured out loud. “I don’t remember ever seeing that here; I wonder where he got that book. There aren’t many books here I haven’t read, but that’s one I don’t remember…”

“Well maybe I can get him to let you borrow it then,” Emma grumbled.

“Ah, here it is!” Isabelle exclaimed, pulling the book in her hands as well as a few others that she saw Henry eying the last time he was in here.

“You’re a life saver, thank you!” Emma said happily grabbing the books.

The bell chimed at the front desk of the Library. That was 2 visitors within minutes of each other. What was going on with today? Isabelle turned her head around to see whom it was but couldn’t quite make it out through the towering shelves of books surrounding them.

“Oh uh, excuse me Emma,” Isabelle said walking towards the front desk of the library. Standing at the desk was a man holding several dozen long stemmed roses of a variety of reds, pinks, corals, and oranges. She nearly gasped by how beautiful they were, and she knew pretty flowers when she saw them. After all, her father was the florist at Game of Thorns (the name of course, was her idea).

“These are for you Ms. Isabelle. Seems like you’ve got an admirer,” the short stocky man said with a smile handing over the roses, which had a large shimmery gold ribbon tied around the stems.

“Thank you Charles,” Isabelle said unable to contain the grin on her face.

“There’s no card though, so I guess it’s a secret admirer! But don’t worry your dad doesn’t know about it!” Charles said with an exaggerated wink before leaving.

The flowers were a sign or a peace offering to show that he had not magically transformed back into the cold and calloused Mr. Gold that she was accustomed to in the hours spent apart. That he was still the man whose arm trembled when she looped hers into his this morning. The thought of Mr. Gold getting on a phone and ordering roses was almost too hilarious and adorable to imagine.

“Geez, some secret admirer you have there,” Emma said emerging behind the bookcases, gaping at the flowers.

“Yes, I dare say he is,” Isabelle said unable to contain her grin as well as her thoughts that were now wandering to the man down the street at the pawn shop whom she had a date with tomorrow night.

 

 

__--_-_--__

 

 

 

Belle had become accustomed to Rumplestiltskin leaving the castle often to do whatever sort of deals he did, that she quite frankly didn’t want to know about. Although he was scattered and almost omnipresent, he was certainly a creature of habit, running his fingers through the gold predictably spinning from his wheel. Taking the same meals, using the same cup that she had dropped with a chip in its edge. So she began to worry when it had been several days and he had not returned; it was just simply not like him to do that.

When he finally did return, it was a burst-a chasm of sound through the large wooden doors of the great room. Belle had nearly fallen over in fright at the sudden noise, she did in fact drop the rag and formula she was using to polish the silver in the room. But when she turned to see Rumplestiltskin rip through the room it was the blood that terrified her more than anything. He looked tattered and torn apart, something she had never, ever seen. It must have been something truly terrible for him to not simply heal himself, it must have drained his energy or his magic or however any of that sort of thing worked for him. Either way, it was quite an awful sight.

“Rumplestitlskin!” was all she could manage to say in a horrified manor. “What on earth happened? Are you alright?”

“Leave me be,” he hissed and it was moments like this that she was reminded that Rumplestiltskin wore many faces, most of which could be quite rude and unkind.

But she had spent enough time with him now to know when he was simply just acting upon the evil that had taken root in him and when he was lashing out, and at this moment, he was lashing out. Something had upset him deeply and it wasn’t the physical wounds that had been inflicted.

She knew when it was the right time to push him, and when she needed to back off; this was one of those back off moments. So as much as it bothered her to not pester him and check in on him, she waited until it was night when she cautiously approached the door to his workroom.

Belle carried a tray with some scones and honey, a cup of tea in his favorite chipped cup, as well as some clean cloths and bandages in case he needed them for whatever had ailed him. She took a deep breath in, summoning courage as she pushed open the door that was not completely shut.

He stood hunched over the enormous wooden table that was cluttered with jars and glasses of varying colors, odors and some that even gave off iridescent glowing light. His hands were pressed against the table and his head was bent down in an emotion she couldn’t quite read. Was it defeat, or possibly dread?

Her attempt to simply place the tray and run out didn’t go as well as planned because he snapped his head up immediately upon hearing her shoe touch the stone floor of the room. He looked bewildered and a little bit more like the monster than the man that had been appearing more and more as of lately.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt, I just wanted to make sure that you were alright,” she said softly lowering her eyes away from his intense stare. She felt as if she had intruded on a private moment that Rumplestiltskin had never wanted the world to see. “I’m sorry for whatever happened today, truly,” she added before placing the tray down and turning around to leave the room.

A clash of thunder boomed and echoed throughout the stonewalls of the castle causing Belle to scream and nearly jump out of her own skin. Moments later, Rumplestiltskin’s workroom was filled with light from the lightening flickering outside. At once Belle was completely humiliated. She absolutely hated thunderstorms and as a child, often would hide under her blankets at the mere warning that one could happen. But here she was trying to be tough and brave in front of the Dark One who probably had to deal with things way scarier than thunderstorms today, only to shriek like the scared little girl she felt like on the inside.

She braced herself for the cruel taunting she was sure to endure, especially given his rough day, but she heard nothing. She turned around finally to see Rumplestiltskin _smiling_ , not sneering. It was slight, not a toothy grin or anything of the sort but the corners of his mouth twitched. Maybe she had never seen him smile before, and she wondered why he didn’t do it more often.

“Afraid of a little thunder, dearie?”

Belle covered her face in embarrassment.

“You’re not afraid of me, or giving up your freedom for a lifetime, but you’re scared of thunder?”

“I know it’s ridiculous,” Belle groaned.

And then he laughed. Not the nasty sort of snarl he made when he was belittling someone. An actual, very human laugh. And Belle couldn’t help but laugh too. She turned again to leave the room after they had finished laughing like children.

He didn’t say anything and she was almost out of the room when she heard it. Words that she never believed she would hear from him.

“Thank you,” was all he said, very simply but also quite genuinely. His voice sounded broken and it was in almost a whisper, but he said it.

And Belle smiled as she left the room, knowing the man she was growing fond of was still there, deep down.

 

 

 

__--_-_--__

 

 

 

 

She probably wasn’t going to show up, he convinced himself. It was a defense mechanism. Predicting the worst, so that when it happened he wouldn’t be surprised and if anything he would feel smart because he had in fact known that it would happen that way. He was quite an expert at it really.

The stares that he was receiving from everyone who happened to be at the diner didn’t help him feel any better either. Mr. Gold never ate out, if he ever did come to the diner it was for takeout, but more likely than not he did not stay anywhere with people longer than he needed to. He should have suggested a date where they ordered food in. But then he remembered he did not want to be in a situation where he and Isabelle were alone again, after their previous night. He was trying to be a better man for her sake, but that didn't mean he trusted himself one bit.

So here he sat in a booth with an empty seat across him as he waited.

When she actually did show up, several minutes early in fact, he had to find a way to convince his heart from beating out of his chest or shutting down entirely. Maybe, if she hadn’t decided to always look so perfect all of the time then that would have helped matters too. She wore a sleeveless dark blue dress with lace that was cut high in the neckline, and flared out slightly from the waist cutting nearly mid thigh. A thin red belt looped around her small waist. She looked around the diner for a moment until she spotted him, seemingly not noticing the stares she received upon entering.

Her eyes lit up and she smiled right at him once she saw him sitting there, and there was that pesky feeling in his chest again that always happened when Belle, and now Isabelle, was around.

His feet moved first and he stood up from the booth as she got into it, her smiled widened as he did this and then they were both sitting across from one another, this was really actually happening.

“Hi!” she said finally.

Mr. Gold almost didn’t trust himself to speak but found it more awkward not saying anything at all. “Hello,” he said softly.

Ruby walked up to the table very cautiously as if perhaps one of them might burst into flames at any moment given the spectacle.

“What can I get you all to drink?” She asked very carefully.

“Hi Ruby! I’ll take… a chocolate milkshake, with whipped cream on top, please,” Isabelle said cheerfully not noticing the horrified look on Ruby’s face.

“I’ll take a coke, please,” Mr. Gold said quickly.

“Okie dokie,” was all she managed before leaving the table.

“The flowers you gave me were absolutely gorgeous, thank you,” Isabelle said cutting the silence with a genuine smile and a soft blush.

“I’m glad you liked them,” he replied.

Silence, something that Mr. Gold had savored and enjoyed almost more than anything had recently become the _worst_ sound. What should he say? Should he remark about her outfit, or her hair? The weather? This was just so ridiculous. It was moments like now that he ached for Belle to be here, she already understood him and still loved him anyhow, something that he never quite understood. How could he get Isabelle French to love him when he wasn’t even sure how or why Belle ever did in the first place? Should he be himself? He honestly didn’t know.

Ruby came back with the coke and milkshake placing them on the table in record speed before twirling away.

"I had a dream about you last night," Isabelle said suddenly as if she had forgotten all about it until just this moment when he did something to remind her of it.

He choked on the coke and ice that he had been mid drinking at her statement. 

Her forehead did that adorable tiny crease that it always did when she tried to recollect something.  

"It was weird though because you weren't you..." she paused. "But you _were_ you."

She stared at him deeply trying to puzzle together her thoughts. "It was the strangest thing too, you spun gold with a giant wheel…"

More choking. He was almost certain that he had swallowed an ice cube. He was really doing an awful job of keeping himself composed. There was once a time when he was calculated, calm, collected and most significantly invoked terror. And now his greatest adversary it seemed was trying to act normal and not choke to death on a date with the woman of his dreams. 

Isabelle giggled then. "I must sound like a lunatic." 

"Not at all. Dreams often tell us more than we can possibly imagine," he said carefully choosing his words. 

Was she remembering? He didn't know how that seemed possible given the curse. But if everyone in the towns change of behavior since the arrival of the savior was any indication to go by, then maybe. Belle was brilliant after all. If anybody could figure it out purely out of curiosity and strong will, it would be his true love. 

He put the tiny glimmer of hope away into a box that couldn't surface to his consciousness and disappoint him any further. 

"Hmm," she mulled that over as she twirled her red straw around in her thick chocolate milk shake, mixing in the whipped cream. "I guess it makes sense. Looking at my drawing of the wheel and your last name." 

"Are you ready to order?" Ruby interrupted suddenly. 

Ruby stared long and steady at Isabelle and then back at Gold, unable to understand what was happening before her eyes. She stared back at Isabelle evaluating her appearance as though checking to see if she was heavily medicated or if she was giving any signals calling for help. 

"A cheeseburger sounds delicious, with fries please," Isabelle said handing the menu to Ruby. 

 "I'll have the same," Mr. Gold said staring daggers at Ruby and at Mrs. Lucas, who appeared to be sharpening her knives behind the counter as she glared at him. 

Mr. Gold had the feeling that every single person in the diner was looking at them. And he was right. He wanted nothing more than to snap his fingers and turn them all to dust but that wasn't happening any time soon. He remembered now why he chose solitude in the dark castle; he really hated the company of others. Even before he became the Dark One, he had always preferred keeping to himself. People were cruel, terrible and disappointing and made him reflect how deeply those qualities possessed him now. Maybe it was people who brought out the worst in him. Except Belle. She chose the daunting and impossible task of finding the best in him. 

The grimaces and whispers of the Storybrooke residents weren't helping his current situation very much. He was certain this was some sort of comical karma for his mistreatment of everyone here, but he deserved this, not Isabelle. Isabelle on the other hand didn't seem to notice or care one bit, but she eyed him curiously. 

"Is everything alright?" She asked. 

"Yes of course," he replied quickly.

"But..." There she goes, not letting him off the hook. He should know better, even when she wasn't Belle, she was. 

"… _But_ I'm not used to-uh socializing with people... around." 

Great, he really knew how to highlight his faults.  

"I'm not either to be honest," she replied shyly. "Why do you think I chose the profession I did? Books are a wonderful escape away from reality and from well, people I suppose. I've always kind of felt like an outcast; I'm not like other girls."

"You certainly aren't. And I mean that as the highest compliment," he said sincerely. "And if we are going to go by who is the greatest outcast I believe I have far surpassed you in that category," he added.  

She smiled at him and leaned across the table a bit closer to him. "I think maybe if you were as kind and thoughtful to everyone as you have been with me recently, they would see you differently." 

He didn't answer her because he couldn't explain to her that it was far, far too late for that. That he had a role to play and that he would do anything including risk everyone's lives and in fact ruin their lives for his son. That he would do something as awful as send away his true love to keep his power to find his son. There was no way to explain that even if he was talking to Belle, not Isabelle.

 

 

 

 __--_-_--__

 

 

 

Isabelle grabbed his hand into hers as they walked out of the diner, proudly solidifying the suspicions of every person in the diner staring at them. She was almost certain she heard some gasps but all she could concentrate on was all of the blood in her body circulating directly to her fingertips, which were touching Mr. Gold’s.  

They walked in silence, but it was not awkward, rather peaceful. She wasn’t sure where they were walking to but as far as she was concerned she could just keep walking the rest of the night and she would be content. That was until a chill ran through Isabelle. She began kicking herself for not wearing a sweater or a jacket. She had spent so long trying to figure out what to wear that the thought of finding a blazer or a cardigan had completely slipped her mind. As if reading her mind, Mr. Gold immediately stopped walking, let go of her hand then pulled the expensive blazer off of his shoulders and placed it around hers.

“Thank you. I’ve never really been good at predicting the weather especially when planning outfits,” Isabelle said gratefully through shivering teeth.

“You’re welcome,” he replied his dark eyes not leaving her blue ones that seemed to coincidentally match perfectly to the silk blue pocket square of his jacket around her shoulders.

She wasn’t sure what to say or what came next. Did she invite him to her apartment? Did he invite her to his mansion? Or did they part ways for the night? This moment confirmed for Isabelle why she never had any interest in dating. There were too many uncertainties, too much of a game that she had no desire to play. Luckily for her, her companion seemed to be on the same page as her, seeing how much he dreaded being around others and how awkwardly he was fumbling around her in the most endearing way. He seemed just as nervous as she was and it warmed her heart and somehow gave her more courage around him.

She didn’t want to say goodbye for the night but she didn’t want to appear too forward either. The nagging self-conscious part of her that always liked to try and ruin everything worried her that maybe he was just being polite by taking her out. Perhaps after their night together he felt bad that she was a virgin and thought he would take her out and then go back to his life. She recoiled inwardly at the thought. Her gut instinct ruled that out and pushed it back to the darker part of her mind that she preferred not to visit. Even with these rather pleasant changes, Mr. Gold did not strike Isabelle as the sort of man to do something that he didn’t want to do. If he didn’t want to see her, she believed he simply wouldn’t.

As if on cue, a clatter of thunder shuddered over them. Isabelle yelped, nearly toppling over in her red heels and grabbing onto him. Thankfully Mr. Gold had been leaning his weight on his cane or they would both be on the street.

“I’m-I’m sorry. I know it’s ridiculous but I’m still afraid of thunderstorms. I never really recovered from my childhood fears,” she stuttered in embarrassment.

His eyes softened from the anticipation and fear that they had been holding for the entire night at her words. The corners of his lips twitched into a slight smile as he tried to suppress a laugh. But it wasn’t a taunting sort of laugh, it was as though Isabelle had told some sort of great inside joke that she didn’t quite get the punch line for.

“It’s ridiculous I know,” Isabelle said finding herself starting to laugh too.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve never been very fond of enclosed spaces,” he replied.

Her smile grew after hearing him confess something that she suspected not a single other person knew.

Before they could go on further, the skies erupted upon them and an onslaught of rain poured everywhere. She shrieked again but in vain, as the rain was relentless. Mr. Gold wasn’t in any sort of condition to be running, and neither was Isabelle in her heels so the two stood there helpless by the rain.

She laughed first, rain sputtering off of her lips as they trembled. Her hair was completely matted down against her cheeks and she could feel the mascara bleed slightly around her eyes. Mr. Gold’s blue button down was completely soaked in seconds and his hair clung to the nape of his neck in a way that made Isabelle want to brush it between her fingertips.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you weren’t very good at predicting the weather,” he said his breath a cloud of smoke and precipitation.

Isabelle giggled and they walked in the rain that didn’t cease at all; it managed to become worse. Isabelle knew the library was close by so they walked in that direction. His hand had found hers again and she marveled at the way their fingers weaved so perfectly together even in the pouring rain. The streetlights around them flickered from the movement of the rain, and their shoes splashed puddles all around them. She could barely see in front of her but saw the silhouette of the tower above the library where her apartment was. They walked to the door and she grabbed her keys from her purse and began jingling them nervously. She unlocked the door and turned around to him trying to blink away the rain rolling steadily off of her eyelashes and into her eyes.

“Do you want to come inside to dry off? I can make some tea-“

He caught the rest of her words with his lips as he pressed them against hers. She felt herself sighing against him as his arms looped around her waist underneath of his jacket pulling her close to him. She ran her hands through his wet hair and wrapped them around his neck. If only they could just do this. Dates and words could become so complicated and make them both nervous and awkward, but the kissing was something dreams word made of. Even in the dark rain, both of them a soaking wet mess, there was nothing more perfect, as if it was what they were meant to do. As strange as it sounded even in her own head, ever since he showed up at her apartment door she felt as though everything seemed to be going the way it was supposed to be regardless of how rushed and insane it all was.

The rain stopped as their lips parted and their foreheads touched.

“It stopped raining,” Isabelle remarked in a daze.

“Indeed it has,” Mr. Gold replied, his voice slightly hoarse and thicker than usual.

He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of her and she felt the perpetual blush that she apparently reserved just for him flushing and warming her face.

“I think I’ll take that tea now,” he said.

 

 

 

 

 

/////

 

 

 

 

Regina Mills watched from the comfort of her warm dry car in horror as Mr. Gold and Isabelle French kissed outside of the library entrance in the pouring rain.

She gripped the steering wheel tightly in anger, her knuckles turning white and misshapen. There would be absolutely no happy endings. **Especially** for  _Him,_ after what he had put her through. Something in her plans had gone drastically wrong and it needed to be stopped, sooner than later. She was beginning to get a dull headache. Between Henry’s birthmother running around Storybrooke and now this, she was going to really lose it.

**_Or_** perhaps she could use this to her advantage, knowing that Gold and/or Rumplestiltskin had a very deep weakness.

And that weakness was Isabelle. 

Yes, she could definitely make this work to her advantage she thought with a devious smirk before driving away.

 

 

 

 

/////

 

 

 

It was endearing the way he stood in her apartment, lost at sea and taken away by the current that was this night. She draped his soaked jacket across the back of one of the kitchen chairs before going to the linen closet to grab some towels.

The thing that they don’t explain in any of the romance novels or movies Isabelle had seen that after the romantic kiss in the rain, there is the awkward aftermath that is being a giant wet mess, which she was certain that she was at this moment. She handed him one of the towels and he thanked her as she attempted to pat her face and then her hair dry; he mimicked her actions. There was also the matter that she was absolutely freezing, dreadfully so that her lips vibrated against her chattering teeth. She had to get out of these wet clothes, but she thought perhaps it would be too forward to just take off her dress at that very moment, besides she did have an awful lot of trouble with the zipper of this dress. Although putting on pajamas or changing into another outfit also seemed pretty awkward considering Mr. Gold was stuck in his drenched ensemble.

He watched her every move as though it was pivotal to his very existence and she felt intense déjà vu from their previous evening together. Thinking about that didn’t seem to help her because her body felt consumed by the memories of his clever fingers and mouth against her throat. She shivered again, but not from the cold this time and took a deep breath in before dropping her towel to the floor and unbuckling the small red belt around her waist. 

“Can you unzip me?” Isabelle asked innocently, teeth dragging against her bottom lip. She had no idea where this newfound boldness had come from, but she was more than interested to see where it would lead her. 

Mr. Gold’s eyes melted into a dangerous shade of onyx as he eyed her for a great deal of time. It was the kind of stare that hit her directly in the gut, sucker punched by the heat of it simmering within her. She didn’t know if she would ever grow accustomed to the level of intensity that he exuded; she hoped she never would. She delighted in the way it seared into her. It was intoxicating to know the sort of effect she had on him, and she wondered if he had any idea how much of an effect he had on her, especially with those kind of stares. She turned her back to him shutting her eyes and willing herself to continue to inhale and exhale, lifting up her wet knotted hair in one hand exposing her neck and back of her wet cobalt lace dress. 

She heard his towel drop and felt him hovering over her before she felt his touch, seeing his shadow splayed out around hers, through hers, on the wooden floor beneath them as he approached. His breath touched her neck and she trembled The teeth of the zipper pressed against her neck and back and he slowly, painstakingly slowly, dragged the zipper down her back until it hit its end, his fingertips grazing her flesh ever so slightly the entire way. He traced his finger up the exposed part of her back and she wondered how his hands managed to be so warm after standing in the cold rain.

His fingers crawled underneath of her dress, beginning to peel back the wet lace like wrapping paper off of a present. His mouth was nearly touching the back of her neck, leaving goose bumps at every breath. She had no intention of whimpering out loud, but it seemed to escape her lips, as she no longer had any control of her actions. She leaned into him, arching her back like a cat, as his lips barely touched her skin, the heat of his breath igniting her. His fingers traveled even further pulling the dress nearly off of her damp shoulders.

Isabelle’s legs were becoming weak, her knees buckling and shaking. Every single movement ached within her.

“You’re shivering,” Mr. Gold said, his voice crackling against her neck. “You need to get warm.”

His hand dipped down and cupped around her side and she moaned softly. He had loosened the wet dress enough that when she dropped her arm and her hair, it fell off of her and onto the floor. She was grateful that she had elected to wear her prettiest violet lace bra and thong, but she suspected that it wasn’t going to last very long. His hot fingers were everywhere warming her skin in their wake. His hands were at her chest sliding under the lace cups and grasping at her breasts and hardened nipples, eliciting a gasp from her lips. She rolled her head back against him her moan becoming more desperate now.

She reached behind her, releasing the clasp of her bra and he helped loosen it off her, falling to floor on top of her dress. In a swift motion he turned her around to face him for the first time in what had felt like centuries. It was almost impossible to recognize the man who grasped her right now, a man who appeared to be nearly possessed by the sight of her, to the man whom a half an hour ago nervously poked at his French fries covered in ketchup and fumbled over his words.

Her heart thudded violently in her chest creating a cacophony of blood rushing to her gut and lowering still. He took in every inch of her, unable to get enough before settling back and locking eyes in the longest staring contest she had ever had. She reached out to him, slowly loosening his tie before he caught her by the wrist.

“Oh no. I’m not quite done warming you up yet, _dearie,_ ” he said in a growl of a promise. 

She didn’t know why the way dearie rolled off of his tongue had such a profound effect on her, but it did.

Isabelle wasn’t sure how exactly they made it to her room, especially Mr. Gold without his cane, but there they were. He led her to the bed where he lowered her down until he she was laying on her back her red heels nearly dangling off of her feet. He had kicked his shoes off, she felt the thuds that they made hitting the floor, and leaned his weight against the bed hovering over her. It didn’t seem fair that she was the nearly naked one but she didn’t have the strength to put up a fight seeing as his hands had found their way to her once again.

His warm hands were on her legs now, bending one leg in his hands his mouth kissing against her knee and then her inner thigh. The stubble of his cheek scratched against her flesh as his fingers trailed up to her waist his thumb sliding underneath the lace of her thong. She watched his every moment, and he watched her watch him gauging her reaction of whether or not to proceed. His lips and his stubble traveled lower and lower until he was hovering against her. His fingers hooked around the fabric of her thong dragging it slowly down her hips as she raised them up to help it off.

She needed him to move faster, but he seemed to be enjoying taking as long as humanly possible and savoring every inch of her.

“Please,” she whimpered not sure what particularly she was asking for, seeing as she wanted about 10 different things to happen at once.

He pulled back from her then, unknotting his dark gray tie and tossing it away. He unbuttoned each button of his shirt slowly, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Please what, Isabelle?” He asked, although she was certain that he knew exactly what she was asking for.

She sat up then, grabbing him by his collar and pressing her lips to his. He groaned against her lips as their tongues collided instantly, the kiss intense and hungry as he climbed on top of her. Her hands pulled his shirt open and off and moved onto his belt swiftly. She was proud of how good she was at getting his belt off in one quick motion. She tossed it away hearing the metal clank against the floor. He pulled back from her as if the sound shook him from his daze. She didn’t think she would ever get tired of the dizzy look that he had on his face after kissing her.

He seemed to be waiting for her now. She realized that he was waiting for her to answer him and she blushed, searching for that brand new bold part of her to voice exactly what she wanted. She bit her swollen lips and he licked his own in anticipation.

“I want you,” she finally settled on breathlessly unable to form a more coherent or elaborate statement, but that seemed enough for him, and he made a sound that resonated within her, a sound that she wished to hear _often_.

“I’m all yours,” he growled and she realized in that moment as he punctuated each syllable, that he meant that in every sense. Not just in this heated incredibly sexy moment. But in every way he was hers.

Before she had enough time to process just how much that meant to her, or to let him know that she was very much his as well, his mouth descended upon her slick opening, his tongue dragging against her core. Isabelle gasped and cried out, clawing at the sheets beneath her and gripping them between her fingers. She was pretty much certain that this man, this incredibly complicated, intense, and ever-changing man, would be the end of her. 

And she could not imagine a better end.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot express how much the kind words and kudos that everyone left meant to me. Please know that it truly did help me to continue with the story. I'm sorry that it has taken over a year in the making, but hopefully some of you out there are still interested to find out what happens.
> 
> There will be 1 more part to this story, and I will certainly try to update it in a more timely fashion. Of course, more feedback or kind words will help me know if I should continue.
> 
> xoxo

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a very long time ago and finally decided to post it. I originally wanted it to be filled with plot but then it ended up being smutty, sorry, not sorry. So far I see this in three parts, any feedback would be much appreciated so I know whether or not to continue. xoxo


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